


(Queen of) Gunfire and Gasoline

by THE JUNKER (jilltheripper)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman (Movies - Nolan) RPF, Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gen, Gritty, Harvey dies, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Other, Rachel Lives, Rachel friendly, SLOWEST UPDATING IN THE WHOLE WORLD EVER, TWISTING CANON FOR MY AMUSEMENT, ok maybe strong Rachel/Joker vibes, slight Rachel/Joker vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8503846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilltheripper/pseuds/THE%20JUNKER
Summary: "The world became images again. The orange light from between the chain link fence followed her vision and blotted out everything else; her heart clenched tight and her vision came in choppy, blurred motion as she was untied and jostled around by her savior. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want this, didn’t understand it. If this was reality, there was no place for her here."Harvey Dent is dead, and Rachel Dawes knows who to blame. After her brush with Crane, things were never the same upstairs, and now there's no "good" to fight for at all.... You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This project is my baby and the first fanfiction I've written alone in, like, 5 years so please enjoy!

She woke up knowing it was the end.

What struck her most, looking back on it, were the few moments after she opened her eyes; it reminded her of that night after Arkham, after the Batman had dragged her back from the brink of insanity. The sensation was so similar. It was too dark to recognize where she was; weak orange light flickered through a nearby chain-link fence, and she could see the reflection of red and green blinking lights in something metallic in front of her.

But all she could do was see.

Her body meant nothing. She had no name, no sense of self or time or placement. For those few moments, all she was was a nervous system and the images rushing through it.

The only thing she thought for sure was that she was going to die.

Slowly, Rachel Dawes gained control of her mind again. It never been the same after that night with Crane. Sure, she coped—everyone had to, to some extent. She’d blown it off as nothing, a hazard of the job, tried to put it behind her … but every once in a while, usually when she was alone, the memories started, she cracked like a vase, imploded, and remembered that she was most certainly fucking _not_ okay.

She had been content to fight to put Crane behind bars, to see the city bounce back from the trauma; she had been content to go back to the way things were, at least in terms of her mental state.

Impossible.

“Bruce?” she whispered. No. That was wishful thinking, and she knew it. She would be in the penthouse if she’d ever made it there—as it was, she was freezing, freezing cold, bound tightly to a chair with rope cutting into her skin. She looked down in the darkness, shutting her eyes tight and trying to recall her last memory. What had … Lieutenant Ramirez. The last thing she remembered was climbing into a car with Ramirez, and then … and then….

Nothing.

By the dim light, she observed her surroundings. She seemed to be in some sort of warehouse; all around her, drums full of oil sat, with her positioned in the middle. In front of her, she could make out the shape of a television set, resting on a drum, and her own outline in the reflection of the screen. Inching her feet–bare, now, her nylons torn at the toes and knee—forward, she could feel cords snaking around her chair. _Dynamite charges_ , she thought.

There was a bang as the heavy metal door in front of her swung open. It would be him—she knew it would be him. It had to be. She leaned forward in the chair as much as she could, as if her panic and seething hopelessness could break the bonds, they just needed a little push. She almost yelled his name in relief. The words died in her throat as a couple of clown faces emerged from the dark hallway and wove through the maze of barrels, toward her.

The masks looked like cheap rubber, just white faces with red noses and flaking makeup. Stood over her, blocking the orange light from the other side of the chain-link fence, she couldn’t make out much about the two thugs; the only thing she could be sure of was that they were armed with a sledgehammer and a bat crowned with barbed wire.

She decided to let them talk first. Her mom had always taught her that “crazy” was a rude word, but hell if she knew another way to describe the kind of people the Joker attracted. It was better to let them get their word in; you never knew what might set them off.

But they said nothing, and she watched in horror and fascination as the one on the left set aside his sledgehammer and produced a VHS tape. Crouching, the clown turned the television set on and slid the tape in before stepping aside.

The video started with static; then, a familiar program began to play. She squinted at the screen, lips parting in confusion. “Jeopardy?” she mouthed.

 _“Let’s do Theatre for 500_ ,” came a tinny voice.

 _“Show me Theatre for 500!”_ The host turned and gestured as the board turned and revealed the question. Rachel couldn’t read it; the quality of the the film was too poor, and the picture kept flickering in and out. _“Also called Arlecchino, this Commedia dell’Arte character is known for his famous ‘slapstick’ and his love affair with the character of ‘Columbina.’”_

One of the other contestants buzzed, and the picture distorted further, damaged. The voice fluctuated from very deep to regular, and back again as the person answered: _“Who is Harlequin?”_

The footage cut out, then, to a shot of a bullet-riddled white wall, in front of which sat the Joker, disheveled, stripped of his coat with his sleeves rolled up. His makeup was smudged, but fresh, and he spoke to the camera as if he were speaking directly to her.

 _“Rise and shine, Mizz’ Dawes. Comfortable? I hope the accommodations are to your liking,”_ he said, pitching forward in his chair with a smirk. He held his hands out, as if to motion for her to stay where she was. As if she had a choice. _“Now, don’t worry. You may be … sitting in the principal’s office, but, ah—”_ He snorted and shrugged. _“At least you’re not alone.”_

“What,” she whispered, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t really hear her. He was in the GDP holding cells, probably halfway across town. The way he looked at her through the screen, though, might have fooled someone else into thinking it was a live feed; he looked so engaged.

_“You’re lucky, y’know? It’s like choosing teams for softball, yeah … you and your man are going to be the very first ones to play my little game.”_

Man? _No…._ Harvey. How was it possible that Harvey hadn’t gotten home? Bruce had _been_ there. But where _was_ Harvey? She was quite sure she was the only prisoner, in this room, at least. Rachel watched in horror and disbelief as the Joker continued.

 _“So here’s the deal, my sweet. Between you and Harvey Dent, someone’s gonna walk out of here alive and well, not even a scratch on ‘em. The Batman’s good, but tonight, we’re gonna see if he can manage to be in two places at once,”_ the clown said, his voice sing-song. _“So let’s begin, shall we?”_

One of the masked thugs moved forward on cue and wove through the drums somewhere behind her. She heard a click and a beeping, and, as if the Joker existed in a different dimension and could hear it, he grinned.

 _“There are one-hundred drums of gasoline surrounding you at the moment, and each and every one is rigged to blow when your timer runs out. But don’t worry … I’ll tell the Batman where you are. You see … at this moment, across town, another hundred drums are rigged to explode as well. Harvey or his little girlfriend….”_ The Joker tilted his head and pursed his lips, brows raised. _“There’s only enough time to save one of you. But I’m a good sport. I’ll let your, uhh … friends decide who it’s gonna be.”_

Rachel’s stomach sunk. If Bruce was still there…. But he couldn’t let Harvey die like this. He couldn’t choose her.

 _“You have….”_ He checked his wrist watch, as if it made a difference. _“’til the top of the hour.”_ And, looking back up, he said, _“Good luck, sugar,”_ before dissolving into a fit of whooping laughter.

 

# ♢ ♦ ♢ ♦ ♢

 

She knew one of them only had minutes left to live, and though each one stretched on like hours, without Harvey’s voice, it was unbearable. The thought that their phone call had been the last time she would hear his voice, ever … it made her stomach churn. When she wasn’t shouting for someone to answer her, she was dry heaving.

What would she do without him? What would be the point?

She almost laughed at herself. What kind of question was that? If she lost him, she’d … just pick up where they had left off. That was the only thing she _could_ do. But thinking of all the things they would never do … _that_ was what killed her. Not the mistakes, or the unanswered questions, or the grief with Bruce. Because of tonight, because of this, they would never live together; never get married, never have children and a dog and a white picket fence. They’d never have dinner at the in-laws’, never have another tearful argument, never stand by each other, never save the day … never be a team again.

The thought alone was agonizing. And now….

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard a shuffle and the sound of someone crying out. It was grainy, like it was coming through a radio, but it was the only noise she’d heard since she’d woken up, besides the ringing in her ears, the Joker, and her own shouting.

She opened her eyes wide, as if that would help her see better. Heart leaping into her throat, she cried out: “Hello? _Hello?! HELLO!”_

From the transmitter, weakly, “What? Rachel?”

Yes! She was equal parts relieved and terrified to hear Harvey’s voice coming from the other end of the transmission. “Harvey! Oh, thank god!” she shouted to the ceiling, her voice hoarse.

“Rachel….” She could hear him shuffling, trying to free himself; there was a thick thud as something struck a barrel on his end of the transmission, probably from his thrashing. “I’m in some kind of … warehouse. I’m tied to a chair in a room … full of oil drums.”

Rachel exhaled sharply. If she had had any hope left, it drained from her body. “I am, too. Listen … listen to me….” Her voice was hoarse and cracked often, but she had no time to repeat herself—no time to say the words she wanted to say perfectly. “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Harvey didn’t say anything.

She swallowed. “He told me … that … only one of us was gonna make it,” she said, her eyes welling with tears now. There was nothing she could do. The tears wouldn’t stop it from happening, and they certainly wouldn’t help Harvey. “And that they were gonna let our friends choose….”

From the other end, she heard what sounded like a sigh of relief. _No, no, no. Fight it. Fight it, fight me, fight them, please._ She closed her eyes tight, hanging her head. She knew why he was so calm. It was the same reason she was crying, now, instead of making her peace.

“Okay, Rachel … it’s gonna be alright, it’s gonna be fine.”

She raised her head.

“They’re coming for you.”

She pursed her lips and tried to hold back her panic. Somewhere, deep down, she thought it wasn’t true; he was the DA, after all. Gotham’s White Knight. No matter who cared for her—Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent, Gordon—she wasn’t important. Not like him. Not like him….

But she just nodded. She had to keep him calm—and if these _were_ his last moments, she needed to be there for him.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Listen to me, I’ll help you. Just talk me— talk me through what’s going on with you. Can you find something, anything sharp?” Hearing his voice had triggered something inside of her, a pinprick of hope that breached the fear. Harvey could do amazing things. This could be one of them. _This could._

“I’m trying!”

Through the radio, she could hear him grunting with effort, paired with the sound of wood on cement. At first, she was sure he was just trying to maneuver himself so he could look around the room; then, she heard a deep, wet thud. It must have been one of the drums, but….

“What— Harvey? Harvey, what’s going on?”

Another heavy thud followed, and she heard him cry out. Panic rose within her. Had he fallen? Or was something else happening to him? When he started to cough, sputtering, she knew something had gone terribly wrong.

 _Oh, god, please find him. Please come for him. “_ What— what … what’s happening? Just talk to me, just for a second!” came her voice, desperately. She turned her head and squinted at the radio, at the little red numbers ticking down. Forty-one seconds left, it said.

And, as if her disapproving stare had frightened some god, she began to hear the wail of sirens coming through from his end.

Rachel was startled, actually, at the surprise and betrayal she felt for that split second. Bruce hadn’t come for her—Gordon hadn’t come for her. The hurt was gone before she even realized fully what it was, and it became relief; it surged through her chest and out her fingertips, cool, like morphine.

She faced forward again, looking at the faint glow of her own reflection in the television screen. It was time.

“Harvey, just in case, I wanna tell you something, okay?”

“Don’t think like that, Rachel, they’re coming for you.”

He sounded so sure, despite the sirens coming through on his end. They didn’t have time to argue and worry—she humored him. “I know they are, but I don’t want them to.”

From somewhere in her building, she heard what sounded like something heavy being broken, like an iron chain or something. She couldn’t imagine what it could be besides some sort of warning from the universe that she should hurry up. As if she needed another warning.

“I don’t wanna live without you and I do have an answer for you.” She felt herself start to laugh, strangely giddy even though these were their last moments together. A proposal was still a proposal, she supposed. “My answer is yes!”

If Harvey said anything in reply, it was drowned out by the sound of someone throwing themselves at the metal door to her far left. Rachel watched in horror as, after a few tries, a familiar cowl and cape caught the light as it swooped in toward her.

Her stomach dropped into her shoes. She’d been so sure…. “No,” she breathed, eyes blown wide. “No, no…!”

“Rachel?” came the transmission.

The world became images again. The orange light from between the chain link fence followed her vision and blotted out everything else; her heart clenched tight and her vision came in choppy, blurred motion as she was untied and jostled around by her savior.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want this, didn’t understand it. If this was reality, there was no place for her here.

“No… NO! No, _no, no!”_ she heard someone scream. The voice was hoarse and unhinged, and for a moment, she was sure someone had followed the Batman in. Rachel’s vision jittered as she was dragged away, but she couldn’t remember leaving the chair, couldn’t identify what parts of _her_ and _this_ existed and which were part of a nightmare that had never really ended. “Why did you come for me?! Harvey! Harvey! _Harvey!_ ”

“Rachel… okay. Rachel, it’s okay. It’s alright, listen….”

She found herself angry at Harvey—angry at the tone of his voice. He sounded so calm, almost _happy_. How dare he—how dare he give up for her, how dare he accept this reality. How dare anybody. He had to keep going, he had to keep fighting. And how dare _Bruce—_

His voice came through again, one last time: “You’re going to be—”

There came a sound that reminded her of an enormous ocean wave, and a ringing, and then nothing. The screaming started again, mad and blood-curdling, as Bruce held her close to him and ushered her out of the warehouse. They barely cleared the explosion, and Rachel wrestled herself from his grip, falling to her knees in the broken glass and letting the residual heat wash over her.

The screaming eventually died off, and only the pain and the taste of copper in her nose made her realize that she had been the one doing it. No noise came now. She looked back at the smoldering mess left in her wake to watch the colors weave and join with the shadows.

Her vision was slowly being eaten by blackness, and the rest of her body succumbed similarly. Bruce gripped her around the arms and tugged her up from the ground roughly, but she could only feel the cold surface of his Kevlar and the hot blood running freely down her shins.

The world was lights and sounds. The world was heat and darkness. The world was copper and hollowness, and Rachel was lost in it.


End file.
